


Where You Are, I Will Be

by ryssabeth



Series: Situational Irony [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grief, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A numbness settles in his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Are, I Will Be

**Author's Note:**

> Bless Kherrigan and [this art](http://daylighthound.tumblr.com/post/46076070712).

( _“You look like a vampire. Hisshiss, the sun_.”)

“The sun isn’t even out,” Enjolras replies quietly, his hands resting in his lap as he sits cross-legged on the ground before the headstone that doesn’t say near enough. (It gives his name and his lifespan, much like history books do, but there is no addendum, no little factoid list about the life he’d led and left and the people he’d touched and abandoned—and anyone who looks at it won’t know _anything_ —he’s just a name without a face or a life besides the _date upon the carved granite_ —)

Enjolras’ fingers twitch in his lap.

( _“I don’t know why you insist on coming here after classes.”_ )

“I’ve got the time.”

The gray of the afternoon bleeds into his bones, wrapping around them and holding tightly, opening up the rest of him for a numbing chill that starts at his fingers and spreads up his arms. His toes, wrapped firmly in a pair of trainers, suffer the same fate (and his back has started to hurt—but he can’t have been here _that_ long, he—).

The chill stops at his chest, his ribs throbbing in an icy grip—but the rest of his chest remains unnumbed, free from the fingers of the cold to bite into him. The wound—still raw, perhaps infected—smarts whenever he breathes. The cracked thing that lives underneath his sternum is nothing, now, just bits and pieces trembling to a heartbeat that hasn’t felt the same in—

( _“Almost two and a half months.”_ )

—almost two and a half months.

Grantaire crouches down in front of him, blocking his view of the too-empty grave marker, running his thumbs along the circles underneath Enjolras’ eyes before he reaches, instead, for his hands, still tucked in his lap. His fingers curl around them and Enjolras thinks they might be warm.

( _“It’s time to go home, Sunshine. Otherwise your fingers will fall off and how am I supposed to explain to everyone that I let you lose your fingers?”_ )

“Lucky that you can’t explain them anything.”

But Grantaire stands—and Enjolras with him—and he turns away from the stone and the ground beneath it and the person beneath _that_ and—

( _“Go home, Enjolras.”_ )

“Will you be there?”

( _“Aren’t I always?”_ )


End file.
